Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

Adam Buenosayres glanced at Old Lady Chacharola one last time before crossing Hidalgo Street, feeling a warm glow inside. His intervention in the witch’s battle was his first contact with humanity that day. Not surprisingly, the easy strings of his soul were already quivering with tenderness at the mere thought of several altruistic projects that would surely exert a magical influence on the street. What exemplary acts, what Franciscan gestures would he bring to bear against the thoughtless cruelty of Monte Egmont Street?

“Kiss the rheumy eyelids of old women. Wash the postman’s sore feet. Wipe away the horses’ sweat. Sweep the patios of widows. Cure the blindness of Polyphemus. Talk with the pigeons of San Bernardo. Anoint the beards of the Jews who sell sunflower seeds in front of the Café Izmir. Or assemble all the hoodlums on the street and read them my Blue-Bound Notebook, out loud, from beginning to end.”

Looking critically at this latest wave of spiritual schmaltz, Adam understood it was linked to his anticipation of transcendental events in Saavedra. Yes, in this hour of earthly happiness, he felt the need to share his pleasure and take into his heart the immense sheaf of the world’s creatures. “Unless Solveig Amundsen, by the sheer grace of her name…”

— Watch out for the funeral!

Adam was about to cross Warnes Street, but had to step back smartly. Hurrah! The cortège was advancing amid the flutter of sombre plumed helmets and the solemn clatter of iron-shod hooves. Six black horses, glistening all over with sweat, foaming at the muzzle, their proud necks arched forward as they pulled the funeral coach, were guided by white reins in the hands of two rigid charioteers gazing westward. Hurrah! Behind them came the carriage, loaded down with flowers, palm branches, crowns, and purple ribbons. Then the family members in landaus with shrouded lamps, and another twenty vehicles in single file, their lacquered surfaces shimmering. Hurrah, hurrah! Long live the dead man!

Standing at the corner of Monte Egmont and Warnes, Adam read two shiny gold letters embossed on the curtains of the carriage: R.F.

— Ramón Fernández, Rosa Fuentes, Raúl Fantucci, Rita Fieramosca, René Forain, Roberto Froebel, or Remigio Farman. Or whoever the devil it is! Should I take off my hat?

He looked around and saw the men on the street doffing theirs in deference.

— They’re all doing it. Why? An instinctive hatred of death, but a reverential hatred. Maybe they imagine the Grim Reaper is perched up there beside the coachmen, invisible, jealously spying on them, keeping tabs on their gestures of obeisance. “Let Death not notice our resentment! Let Death forget us a while longer!” That’s why they raise their hats. Anyway, it’s only a body minus its soul, a tool with no craftsman, a ship with no pilot. To hell with matter without form! I’m not taking off my hat.

But something was amiss in his proud reasoning, and Adam caught it right away.

— Still, an immortal soul lived in that already decomposing body. A soul exercised its terrible freedom in that body, performed a thousand gestures, worthy or abominable, prudent or crazy, ridiculous or sublime. One day R.F., whoever he was, will have to look for his deserted body in La Chacarita Cemetery, hear the angel’s trumpet, and feel the last leaf of time fall upon his shoulders. Quia tempus non erit amplius . 6Okay, I’ll take off my hat!

Adam saluted the now distant R.F. and waited for all the vehicles to file by. He looked up: the sky was bright, but in his mind’s eye he saw it crumple up and fall in shreds like an old backdrop for a theatrical show.

– “And the sky shall be rolled up like a scroll.” The tremendous words of the Apocalypse, read at midnight. A sacred terror that beats its drums in the distance, in crescendo, in crescendo , until it breaks the eardrums of the soul. A fish on a hook: me. A fish that’s taken the invisible hook and thrashes around at midnight. And that old call, amid the cruel laughter of demons lurking in dark corners: “Adam! Adam Buenosayres!”

Strident voices startled him suddenly.

— Truco! sang out the Ancient Coachman.

— Retruco! shouted the Fat Coachman.

— I’ll go four!

— I’m in!

In front of La Nuova Stella de Posilipo were parked two funeral coaches, rather the worse for wear. The sorry old nags that drew them had their muzzles plunged into canvas feedbags and crunched away on their corn. Inside the cantina, under the enigmatic gaze of Don Nicola, the three funeral coachmen threw down their cards and once again raised their glasses, amid the harrassment of blind-drunk flies.

“Feckless charioteers of Death!” grumbled Adam to himself. “Threadbare top hats, death-green livery, buttons made of a metal without glory. A bunch of Charons with patches on the ass of their pants! They grouse when they count their tips and gargle with cherry liqueur to get the carbolic taste of death out of their mouths. And what about the phantasmagorical Don Nicola? A specimen of dubious ontology: animal, vegetable, or mineral? His famous plonk, one-hundred-percent pure grape juice! Ah, finally, the last car has gone by.”

At La Hormiga de Oro, Ruth took her hands out of a large earthenware tub full of dirty water, where two plates and a serving dish were still waiting to be washed. The kitchen was an appalling chaos of utensils: here a ribald pot showed its blackened arse, there a dipper and a skimmer lay fiercely crossed like two swords. On the grill sat a skillet whose layered remains mutely chronicled the fries of yore. The stench of fish fried in rancid oil saturated everything. A greedy swarm of flies buzzed in the garbage can and around the greasy splotches on the oilcloth covering the table. A bearded leek, three bright chili peppers, and a few earthy potatoes, all in a rush basket, lent some dignity to the barbarous scene with the rigour of their classical forms and colours. But Ruth (it must be said in all fairness) was not resting at anchor in all that terrestrial vulgarity. Her mind navigated in a very different world, as she wiped her hands (hands meant for caressing the ethereal torsos of sylphs!) and lowered her brow under the weight of heaven knows what profound cogitations. Suddenly, tossing back her mane of bronze hair, Ruth stood up tall (O slender stalk of narcissus!), placed her right foot forward, stretched out her bare arm toward the cookware, and declaimed:

Melpomene, the tragic muse, approaches! 7

She stopped with a frown of displeasure. Not like that! But how? It was supposed to be the moment of terror when the poet discovers the tragic muse, and she goes and says it in that vulgar, marketplace tone, with no expression, like she was asking the butcher for a thirty-cent soup bone! Resuming her pose, she cleared her throat, then moaned lugubriously:

Melpomene, the tragic muse, approaches!

No, no, no! A calf getting its throat cut! If she didn’t watch out, she was going to look ridiculous. Let’s try once more, not so aggressive this time. Stretching out her admirable arm, Ruth spoke:

Melpomene, the tragic muse, approaches!

That’s it! Just right! The same voice, the same élan as Singerman. 8Encore, encore! Dazzled by imaginary glory, Ruth saw herself on the proscenium, bathed in multicoloured lights that brought out the gold and silver highlights in her dress. The applause was thunderous, and she inclined a head freighted with laurels. She straightened up, clasped her hands in front of her, and walked slowly backward, bowing deeply before the row of pots and pans. Just then, the shadow of a bitter old crone darkened the kitchen door.

— How nice! she scolded. The kitchen’s a pigsty, and the lady’s doing a little song and dance!